


All of me

by Anonymous



Category: 91 Days (Anime)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Humiliation, Jazz Music, M/M, Psychological Manipulation, Whipping, dubcon, hunger kink, i want to cry realizing i gotta tag this, ice cubes, more tags will be added in the future
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-24 12:26:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8372239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: This is the story of how Corteo's mind broke.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [paperbridge](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperbridge/pseuds/paperbridge) in the [91dayskinkmeme](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/91dayskinkmeme) collection. 



> DISCLAIMER: This trainwreck is still in the making, I just wanted to post what was done up to now. Basically, what happened is I started planning out the story to fit this prompt, but then I came up with like ten more kinks to put in it so some of the bonuses will come up later on... Yes, later, because this is gonna be long, way too long for *fucking porn*. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Prompt:**
> 
>  
> 
> The weak link in the Vanetti's chain of power is Corteo- in fact, he shouldn't even be considered part of the family. But Fango sees value in this weak link, and he's beginning to think that if he pulls at this one part the rest will fall apart.
> 
> (Fango keeps asking favors of Corteo until it escalates to fucking and then it reaches a point where Corteo can't live without that dicc)
> 
> BONUS::  
> Corteo begging for Fango's cock by the end  
> Corteo tied up and riding Fango  
> Fango playing jazz music as he's fucking Corteo to fuck him up  
> Just fuck Corteo up tbh this is a sinful fic for on the sinniest of sinners

Ever had a possibility presented to you with ‘bad idea’ written all over it, and did it anyway? Corteo has. For Angelo’s sake, yes, but halfway through following up his decision to ditch the Vanettis for Fango, he started to realize that there might have been a better way. Something less extreme. When he had thought of this plan, it somehow sounded perfectly reasonable to him to kill Nero as soon as possible, so that his friend could get his revenge over with already. Corteo got tired; of the shady business, of Angelo’s crude behaviour and attempt to brush him off, Nero still being around despite the occasions to kill him presenting themselves one after the other on silver platters… 

 

He hasn’t considered his own side of this story. That he would have to cooperate with someone like Fango, the most insane, perverted, disgusting individual in the entire mafia-scene. Someone who has - rumour has it - made lasagna out of Orco’s flesh and had his subordinates eat it. And now Corteo roams the town, alone, with a sort of large hat he bought not to be recognized, which makes his exterior silly in contrast with his mood. He’s invited to a ‘party’ at Fango’s place and it’s starting in half an hour. It’s not a mandatory meeting about liquor, otherwise Corteo would’ve been told it’s important. The new Don seems to be wanting him at his social event purely on a whim. He’s done this before; the young man thought there would be some substance to last week’s ‘meeting’, but it really was just a match of golf. Corteo didn’t even know how to play, he’d never been rich enough in his life to learn. 

 

He’s worried his rational way of thinking has abandoned him. It has always been his fear to end up like this, not being able to judge situations appropriately, and now it did happen. He dug himself in a hole. Now he’s stuck with a hedonistic madman, while the rest of the mafia and the police are breathing down his neck. There’s no going back, is there? The contrast between the poverty in the side of town he’s walking through and Fango’s little ‘castle’ (as he would call it) isn’t helping him feel less conflicted. The mafia has introduced him to a luxury so morally wrong that he’s pondering running off on his own and just living in the streets as a beggar. But he’d be abandoning Angelo, when he swore him they’d be brothers and decided for himself to make him the most important person in his life. 

 

He knows the way to Fango’s, as he’s always been good at memorizing routes. He could hurry up and still be on time, barge into the manor and apologize quietly. He can already imagine the Landlord, smirking and scratching his bearded chin in intrigue as to why Corteo would show up on his own accord. Yes, it would be a surprising move, and if he’s going to ally himself with the older man, he might as well earn his favours, using the open possibility of observing him. He’s going to have to run away from Fango at some point anyway, better know his weak points. Corteo turns around and quickens his pace, retreating on his own footsteps. 

 

He expects guests, but there’s a strange silence in the Orco-villa (now taken over by its new owner). The fountain, tastefully placed in the geometric center of the garden, spouts water quietly and obstinately. It’s unsettling, but everything has been since the start of this new paranoia. Corteo wouldn’t be able to tell what he finds misplaced - anything and everything. There are no cars parked outside and only a few windows reveal illuminated rooms behind them on the second floor. He arrives at the gate and pushes it open carefully; Fango never locks the door, he reasons ‘he’ll make his henchmen catch anyone if they come in’. Or he’ll pick up a rifle and blow five holes in their brain himself, laughing at the blood, the death, the corpse. 

 

No one in the hall, this is odd. Looks like there’s no choice but to go directly to Fango’s room. Corteo could leave now, playing into his bad habit of not persisting with his ideas up to the end. Even when they were kids, it has always been Angelo who couldn’t be deterred from his plans while dragging Corteo along. He wishes his friend could smile and hold his hand in the darkness of the staircase right now, like he used to. He’s nineteen and he’s having this kind of thoughts.

 

“Corty-baby!” Fango hops up from his chair as soon as the door opens, his voice as loud and obnoxious as his laughter afterwards.

 

Corteo prays to God. He does because every time he’s in this man’s presence, there’s such an aura of filth and disintegrity emanating from him, that he fears it might affect him as well. He studies his movements, overly-confident and probably affected by drunkenness, the way he drags his feet on the floor. Fango is only taller than him by a few inches, but his body mass trumps Corteo’s scarce one by a great deal. He’s overwhelming, always invading personal space by just too much, the necessary amount for his overdone cologne and alcoholic stench to be smelled. 

 

“Never thought you’d show up…! Here, take a seat” he says loudly, placing a hand on the young man’s shoulder. Irking.

 

“Is the party… over?” Corteo asks timidly, internally shaken up and a little disgusted, regretting to have ever considered coming here. 

 

“Oh boy, it hasn’t started yet” Fango chuckles, “Now that you came, we can begin!”

 

“...Where are the guests?”

 

“RIGHT HERE!” The sudden scream makes the younger man jump a little on the armchair he just sat down on, as the host indicates the room around them with a wide gesture. “It’s just the two of us, on this… Party? Get together? Rendez-vous? Call it what you will.”

 

“Is this about Lawless Heaven?” Corteo tries to keep the shivering out of his voice.

 

“Will you speak up for once, Corty-baby?” Fango throws his legs on top of the table after sitting down. “I can’t hear your voice, just let it out!”

 

The younger man repeats the question, and all he gets as a response is the other slowly shaking his head, smirking and staring as if he wanted to pierce him with his gaze. Corteo also wonders if he can ever get him to drop that nickname; it sounds overly intimate and condescending at the same time.

 

“No no no, my dear boy, all I wanted to have is a little celebration.”

 

Fango gets up from his chair, pacing around Corteo in a big circle, like a vulture. 

 

“A celebration for the fact that you’re working for me, you know? I appreciate you offering yourself up like this~”

 

While Fango walks up to a counter at the other side of the room to get a bucket of ice with a bottle of champagne in it, the ‘boy’ wonders if he’s reading too much into this situation or he really is in terrible danger. Corteo also notices how the other man is pouring champagne in wine glasses, making his facade of aristocracy drop in credibility. 

 

“I’d have a glass of Lawless Heaven now,” he remarks, leaning against his desk, “But this is more suited for the occasion, don’t you think, Corteo?”

 

The latter tries to send a sip of the sparkling liquid down his throat instead of answering. He misses the ‘Corty-baby’s now. There’s something disturbing about the way Fango says his name, savouring it more than his fancy drink. He’s also looking at the younger man way too much, with the face of an emperor trying to decide on his destiny. Corteo doesn’t like it, he doesn’t like it at all. 

 

“You know,...” Fango makes an attempt at starting a conversation casually. He pauses, rolling up his eyes, as if trying to form the sentence carefully before uttering it. “Sometimes I think I’m one of the good guy mafiosos.”

 

Corteo resists the urge to furrow his eyebrows. How utterly absurd. The other continues.

 

“You know why that is? I don’t ask a lot of my subordinates. It’s enough for me if they do their job, I don’t go preying on their families.”

 

It’s hard to tell why he’s saying this. He drinks all the champagne in his glass at once and pushes himself away from the desk, walking up to Corteo’s chair once again. The younger man tenses even more, as he feels Fango’s presence close.

 

“Now, that doesn’t mean I don’t ask for favours.” He’s leaning against the back of the armchair, warm breath on the young man’s neck, goosebumps running down the uncovered skin. “And I’ve been bored lately. Frustrated, even, Corty-baby.”

 

There’s alarm bells going off in Corteo’s head, and he figures he should adopt a more forceful attitude to get out of this situation. 

 

“And what am I supposed to do about that?” 

 

Fango bursts out in a blood-freezing laughter, making the other wince away. 

 

“There’s a few things…” All of his muscles tense up when there’s something on his nape, warm and rough skin, calluses, sliding lower and lower, shamelessly into his shirt.

 

Corteo panics and grasps the hand, but he’s shaking and his nerves only transmit stimuli with intermissions, thus he fails to clutch it strongly enough. His eyes, widened by horror, look up at Fango. He’s smiling and relaxing. This is natural to him.

 

“Not an experimental one, are you, boy?”

 

He nears the younger man, who can feel him over his shoulder - every rustle of clothing, every inhale and exhale, the hairs of his beard grazing his earlobe. Corteo soon notices that he’s been so fixated on the shock that he missed any possible chance to escape. If he moved now, he’d be strangled or beaten, maybe shot to pulp. Fango latches his other arm around the younger man, removing his grip without much effort. He holds his chin to turn his mortified face towards himself, to the side. 

 

“You’ll have some fun too, if you easen up.”

 

Corteo grits his teeth when the older man closes his eyes, sighs in satisfaction, and then resumes his maneuvers from before. Warm, rough fingers stroke his chest under the shirt, slowly, and it would almost feel like a massage if it wasn’t so scary. 

 

“Follow me” Fango whispers in his ear, voice low and coarse; he briefly pats him on the shoulder, then he approaches a door which seems to conduct directly to his bedroom from the office - typical. Corteo’s knees almost buckle as he stands up, walks, and again, only realizes he could’ve fled when he’s already closer to the landlord than the exit. 

 

The Don sets the ice bucket down almost violently, grabs the bottle of champagne and gulps down some of it without a lot of consideration. 

 

“Corty-baby~,” he says loudly, “I’m so glad to have you here!” And with that, he laughs and walks up to the younger man, immobilized by fear and silently pleading God to free him from this situation in some miraculous way. 

 

Although Fango was likely already drunk from the start, the additional alcohol has its effects, making him bolder than he otherwise would’ve been. He circles Corteo, inspecting him, something that’s starting to annoy the younger man on many levels. Then, out of nowhere, Fango slides a hand around his waist, and Corteo tries to break free desperately, failing due to the strong grip. 

 

“Playing hard to get?” He rips apart his shirt at the first button and pulls it down along with the vest, exposing his shoulder and biting into it forcefully. Corteo shrieks in pain and surprise. “But you did come after me to this room willingly;” There are fingers at the seam of his pants, pulling his shirt out. “Don’t pretend you didn’t, sweetheart.”

 

It’s disgraceful and revolting. Corteo can’t stand having those hands on him, pretending to be so calm and relaxing. The hands of another man, when he hadn’t even been with a woman yet. He can feel the scent on himself already; luxury, alcohol and decadence. 

 

“I don’t… want this…” he pants, his eyes shutting on their own accord so he doesn’t have to see everything happening to him besides experiencing it. 

 

“Are you sure you won’t give it a try?” Fango purrs, softening a little. “It never hurts to…” He gropes the other’s crotch slowly but firmly, making him gasp.

 

Corteo is angry at himself and wants to barf. He’s hard. It’s probably out of fear, there’s a biological explanation to this phenomenon, but that doesn’t keep the touch from being so liberating. Fango is mouthing at his jaw while he’s distracted. He’s thorough and persistent; it’s amazing how much more concentrated he is on this rather than any other everyday activity. 

 

The new Don discards his vest and eases him out of his shirt button by button, his lips now on Corteo’s ear. The younger man wails in surprise when Fango gnaws at his earlobe, yet another thing to divert his attention while his shirt falls onto the floor too. Corteo takes note only now of how calculating and systematic he is with his dirty tactics, somehow managing to still have him there, despite him being terrified out of his mind and utterly unwilling. 

 

Fango is fumbling with his belt’s buckle despite Corteo’s half-hearted attempts at shoving him away, and when it’s finally open, his fingers find their way to the younger man’s erection. A satisfied chuckle and a gust of air along with it, smelling of alcohol.

 

“What do we have here?~”

 

Corteo grasps the other’s wrist tightly, fingers digging into skin, and to his surprise, its motions stop before they’ve even started. They stand in silence, Fango refusing to move an inch from his position behind Corteo, and Corteo slowly opening his eyes and turning around to look at the other through foggy glasses. His stare is pleading the Don, it says ‘Let me go, I beg of you, I’m miserable enough, have mercy’ while he’s hyperventilating and sweating profusely.

 

Fango raises his eyebrows and, with his expression, he replies ‘No, you came looking for trouble and now you’ll entertain me’. Corteo doesn’t know anymore; he can’t tell between confusion and excitement, disgust and intrigue, fear and arousal. Having Fango’s hand still tight around his cock doesn’t help. Then, for a second, he seems to lose control, and his fingers come loose, sliding cautiously on those large knuckles.

 

Slowly, he moves Fango’s palm with his own. He can almost feel the maniacal smirk behind him as they reach the tip and slide down the shaft again, and it feels dangerously and sickly good, and Corteo can’t hold back the moan, and- 

 

The younger man pulls away in horror, panting and almost falling on the floor in front of his - visibly annoyed - host. He attempts to tuck back his already erect arousal with quivering hands.

 

“I think I’ll go now. I have duties” he says with feigned confidence. Fango looks like he has just heard the worst lie in his life. 

 

“Thanks for the hospita-” 

 

He’s cut off by the older man who grabs his arm forcefully. Corteo yelps.

 

“But it’s so late, Corty-baby-! You wouldn’t want to walk around at night, would you?”

 

He jerks the bootlegger close to himself and is surprised to find out how little he resists. Corteo is soon pushed onto the bed’s purple, satin sheets, Fango climbing above him and, miraculously, not touching him right away but instead leaning down to his ear.

 

“You should come to terms with your needs, boy. Acting all chaste will only make you desperate.” His fingers ghost on Corteo’s bare chest, making him fidget and attempt to escape again, with very little conviction left this time. 

 

“Or were you saving yourself for that friend of yours?” Fango snickers. The younger man’s heart skips a beat. “Nero-boy is probably pounding his ass as we speak, you know that, right?”

 

Corteo feels the ire rise in him rapidly and he lashes out to punch the older man in the face. His hand is stopped by Fango’s stronger one as he laughs at the hint of a tear in the other’s eyes. Deep within himself, Corteo knows he wouldn’t care about these rumours if he didn’t think there was some truth to them. He suddenly feels hurt and regrets this situation so, so deeply, the image of young, innocent Angelo shattering into a million pieces in his mind, even more than it has after their reunion.

 

His thoughts are shut down by Fango latching onto his neck with his lips aggressively, sucking, biting and leaving marks. He wants to refuse and reject, but there’s some inexplicable charm to this man and the way those hands pull out his hard-on again, stroking it slowly but with just enough pressure; it scares Corteo to death. 

 

Then Fango bites into his shoulder again, canines sinking into muscle and Corteo shouts at the ache, but doesn’t attempt to pull away anymore. The new Don sits up, looking down with a sort of cruel amusement and anticipation at his prey. He must be proud, now that Corteo has abandoned his will to opt out and is lying on his bed, almost compliant but still reluctant.

 

He undoes his own pants and gives his half-erect cock a few strokes until it’s completely hard. Corteo stares in horror at how much bigger Fango is, and the latter notices, because he smirks at him maliciously.

 

“C’mere, give me a blowjob, will ya?”

 

“...No…” Corteo presses past his lips, quietly. His host rolls his eyes.

 

“Come on, can’t we just get this started?”

 

Even imagining the act itself makes the younger man pull away. He tries to wiggle his way out from under Fango, who reacts right away and holds him down, straddling his chest. He’s too heavy to be pushed down. One moment and his cock is already all the way inside the other’s throat; Corteo coughs and salivates, a tear rolling down his cheek. His gag reflex is on the verge of making him throw up. 

 

“My bad,” Fango exclaims loudly, “Sometimes I forget not everyone is used to this.”

 

He pulls out his erection and Corteo can finally breathe; he can thank God for this, at least. The older man pushes in, slower this time.

 

“Try to relax, boy. And use your tongue.”

 

He doesn’t know why, but Corteo abides by Fango’s command. He gives an experimental lick to the underside of the penis, tightening his lips around it and silently hoping he’ll be let off with this only, so he can leave this place and never come back again. Fango grabs him by the hair, immobilizing his head as he violently thrusts his erection in with another rock of his hips. 

 

He stops for a second. Corteo stares. Fango reaches out for his glasses and removes them, throwing them on the floor carelessly and almost breaking them.

 

“Pretty eyes you got there, Corty-baby.” He thrusts in again, earning a muffled gasp. “If only you didn’t look so pissed…”

 

The younger man feels like he’s in hell as Fango fucks his mouth unyieldingly, barely letting him take a breath. He moans around the cock - not sure if out of pain or pleasure, considering that, for God’s sake, he’s rock hard again, or better yet never went limp in the first place. He wishes he could at least touch himself, just to relieve the tension and let this nightmare be over with, but his realism tells him there’s no way this ‘party’ is going to end that easily. 

 

“Don’t forget to swallow~” Fango chants amidst his rhythmic movements, then adds, “Isn’t this fun now? I don’t usually like…” he interrupts with a moan as he hits the back of Corteo’s throat, “...Control. But you bring this out of me, you poor, lonely boy; you and your unfortunate crush…”

 

He comes, and Corteo feels his mouth fill with semen and his head fill with rage. He can tolerate one mention of Angelo by this devil, but bringing him up twice, he can’t bear. As Fango removes his body weight from his chest, the younger man spits his seed in his face without thinking much, only recognizing the incoming doom in the five seconds of silence after the act. He’s gritting his teeth and breathing hard, fiercely gazing with narrowed pupils at the other man who’s still dumbfounded. 

 

Corteo’s arms are suddenly twisted behind his back and he hears the sound of a belt being pulled out. He tears his hands away, but Fango grabs them again and wraps the leather strap around them tightly, knotting it. The bootlegger falls forward, backside exposed and face pressed against the sheets. He can’t move. He’s captured. He gulps when he realizes that the phrases emerging in his head are making his erection swell and starts to wonder if he has any sanity left at all. 

 

“Looks like you still need to learn discipline, Corteo.”

 

The younger man moans. It happens inadvertently, and he would quickly cover his mouth with a hand if they weren’t both tied behind his back. For the past hour, he’s been trying hard to tell himself how much he dislikes this, but he’s pitifully unsure now. It puts Corteo’s mind at rest to be maneuvered through the frightening world of sexuality and to finally do something on his own, not for Angelo’s or anyone’s sake, but just because he feels like it. It’s entirely wrong and immoral, but he can’t get away from here anyway, or at least that’s the most comfortable excuse he can tell himself.

 

Fango removes his pants and underwear without much hassle and pushes Corteo’s legs forward, forcing him into an even more compromising position, ass up and face pressed against the mattress. The younger man tries to turn his head, curious and afraid of what comes next, and all he sees is Fango skimming through the room with his eyes, as if looking for something. He lingers on the bucket with the champagne bottle in it, then releases a chuckle that gradually turns into an unsettling laughter.

 

“Oh, would you look at this… HahahahHAHAHA…! I’m a genius, Corty-baby, I’m a goddamn genius!”

 

Fango picks up the metallic container, Corteo stares in terror. He dips a hand in, then thinks again and gets up to recover a rope (why would he have that beside his bed…?), and with the next motion, he can revel in how tractable his ‘victim’ is. Corteo doesn’t complain as his ankles are circled and brought together by the fibres; his numbed-by-nihilism brain currently considers keeping his knees apart the biggest problem. He just wants this to be over with. But, he also wants to know how far it will go… Corteo notes to himself to just stop thinking for once.

 

The older man hums, amused, as he reaches to the bucket and the other doesn’t even want to take guesses on what he’s about to do. If he started to imagine the possibilities, he’d likely faint. He feels Fango coming up behind him and complacently grabbing one of his buttocks, no warning and no commentary. His hand is cold. It has a sinister feel to it. 

 

“GAH!” 

 

Corteo screams. No, the hand from before was nothing, this is cold, the piece of ice Fango has pressed against his hole, perverted excitement just radiating from him. The younger man forgets he can’t kick or move his legs; he wiggles and implements every possible shift just to get his body the farthest he can. Fango slams his face - and consequently his body - down by the neck to keep him still, guffawing like a maniac and shoving the ice cube through the ring of muscles in one go. 

 

He glares at his ‘work of art’ happily. In the meanwhile, Corteo’s entire body is in panic. He’s positive he has used every muscle in his body trying to get the feeling to go away, but the spasms only make his insides tighter around the cold object, worsening the situation. 

 

“Fuck!” He cusses, uncharacteristically. His breaths come out hasty like he’s about to suffocate. “Just make this… Stop…!”

 

“There’s only one way for that,” Fango replies, mimicking a wise voice, “If you relax and get used to it. Maybe the next one will feel better…”

 

Corteo heaves loudly, lets his body slump to the side. He’s tired. He’s tired. He’s tired. Why won’t Angelo help him. Why did he come here. He’s so tired of life.

 

Fango picks up a new ice cube, wrapping his other arm around Corteo’s waist to pull him up again, keeping him nestled against himself for a few seconds and emitting a disapproving sigh. There it goes, the second wave of coldness hits the younger man, and this time he doesn’t fight it that much. Fango could potentially choke him in this position, that’d be worse than whatever is happening right now. Due to his compliance, his host is only stroking his cock, slowly and methodically. Corteo feels strangely soothed; for now, at least it’s not only cold air on his skin and colder frozen water in his insides, but arms around him and body warmth. It’s a small wave of pleasure in his guts, and he knows he’s sick and too far gone, but he prefers staying still and letting the situation escalate.

 

“Yes, baby, that’s it. You’re doing excellent” Fango murmurs in his ear. His breath still reeks of drinks, but it’s warm.

 

The third cube is barely a touch anymore, and their unpleasantness doesn’t even cumulate, considering how the first two have melted already. 

 

“I love seeing you like this” the older man says. “Taking in the ice so willingly while you still struggle with your feelings about this…” He moves closer, practically wrapping himself around the other. His cock is hard again, Corteo can feel it push against the quivering skin of his ass cleft. 

 

“I want to see how you really are inside,” Fango whispers, “Poor, shy little Corty-baby.”

 

Is it a sexual innuendo or a metaphor? Corteo can only wonder as the Don pulls away, inspecting him from the edge of the bed. His entire body starts shaking and covers up in goosebumps. He’s never been ashamed of being cold before. 

 

“You’re freezing!” Fango laughs, like a child, someone else’s suffering (and probably his own too) so joyful and funny to him. He spreads out Corteo’s cheeks and pushes a finger in his entrance, and the younger man has to accept that it’s warmer than the ice cubes and thus doesn’t feel nearly as bad. He finds himself pushing back, seeking the heat of those hands with no shame and hating himself for it.

 

“You like this” Fango comments, but it sounds more like a declaration. “Woah, it’s so wet in here, my idea was the best… Just like a woman’s… I’ll give you something to keep you warm there, I think you’ll love it…!”

 

Corteo barely hears his ramblings; some degrading phrases catch his ear and blood instantly rushes to his crotch. He truly feels like a pathetic creature, finding pleasure in the worst things that could ever happen to him. He’s filthy and tainted, he has been since he entered this house willingly. Never again will he be able to direct earnest and pure feelings towards Angelo, never will he look him in the eye proudly anymore. 

 

He can feel Fango’s erection nudging against his asshole and he wants to run away, the will to do so is still alive in him, but he stays there anyway. Motionless. It doesn’t matter anymore. He’s being taken by a man, his first sexual experience, and yet he’s relaxed as the organ penetrates him abruptly. His cock twitches, even. Corteo has the impression that this would hurt like hell in any other circumstance, but what he had to go through earlier has numbed him down. Besides, Fango was right; his throbbing cock is warm and helps him readjust after the ice cubes. 

 

“Aaaah…” The moan comes out unwillingly, for the second time this night. Corteo can’t see the other man, but they’re not in contact anymore except their hips. He can imagine Fango, kneeling behind him and grinning as his fingernails - which he can definitely feel - dig into his hips.

 

The new Don shifts his weight forward and starts fucking him with little concern regarding Corteo’s comforts and preferences, the pride he takes in desecrating such a pure body just emanating from the confidence in his movements, the grunts and chuckles and probably his expression. Corteo breathes in gasps, the exhales shifting into whimpers from time to time. He wonders where his sane thinking has gone the moment it occurs to him how every thrust makes his senses tingle and his cock twitch. He’s enjoying it, but it’s out of need, he tells himself, he goes with the flow. He’d never do this voluntarily, never be degraded and humiliated like this. 

 

Fango changes his angle, moves differently, does something, and Corteo’s moans go twice as loud before he can even think of controlling himself. He writhes as much as the ropes allow it, not shameless enough to make the backward rolls of his hips full-blown, but desperate nevertheless.

 

“Oh, aren’t you” Thrust “Enjoying yourself, boy!” Fango is cracking up, making the man under him wonder what’s so delightful about the whole thing. “Yes, you’re loving it, look at you!” He bends forward, grabbing Corteo’s chin and forcing him to look behind. “You love being fucked like this, hahhaha!”

 

Then he touches the younger man’s cock, after which his groans shift into outright yells. Corteo is unaware of everything at this point, his senses are overwhelmed to a degree he didn’t think existed. He couldn’t care less about the string of saliva dripping down his chin, the ropes digging into his joints, his ass being sore already or the obscene, sopping sounds of Fango’s cock ramming into what remains of the ice cubes. He goes deeper and Corteo’s toes curl as he feels an entirely new type of pleasure approach him, and then-

 

It stops. 

 

Corteo has his eyes still squeezed shut, but he proceeds to open them. Fango has simply pulled out and let go of his erection. He attempts to turn his head more, sweat running down his cheek. The extended pause is torturous. 

 

“You think I’m gonna just let you come?” His tone is cruel. “After you spat the cum in my face?”

 

The sound he earns from the bootlegger is akin to a whimper. After finally discovering some sort of pleasurable sensation, now everything is terrible once again, the cold, the nakedness, being tied up, all of it. 

 

“This will teach you a lesson,” Fango says, amused, heartless and domineering, “Beg for it.”

 

There’s no significant response besides a slight shift.

 

“I said beg for it, bitch.”

 

The namecalling reminds Corteo about how badly he needs to come by sending another tingle through his penis. He sees his host now, seemingly entertained by the show, stroking himself with slow movements, fiddling a little with the head each time. He has to reconcile himself with the idea mentally; that rather than escaping, he wants that cock to go up his ass. 

 

“...Plea...se…?” Corteo breathes out.

 

“Please what? What do you want me to do, Corty-baby?”

 

“I… I want you to…” He can’t continue, in fear of fainting. Fango runs a hand up his thigh, teasing, painfully close to his crotch. The other man pants hard.

 

“Oh right, and address me by my title. You’re still my subordinate.” It’s so painfully obvious how much he enjoys having taken over the Orco family.

 

“Please Don?” Corteo gathers all his courage to push the words past his tongue. “...Fuck me…?”

 

“I can’t feel the intent.”

 

Suddenly, the younger man gets hit by his own needs more harshly than before. The heat in his groin and his contracted muscles are starting to become uncomfortable and the cold is killing him, especially combined with the layer of sweat on his body. 

 

“Please Don Fango,... Fuck me,- I really need it…! Please, I need to come,- Please, I’ll do anything…”

 

This seems to appease him. Fango gives a few crude, detached, merciful thrusts before coming. Enough consideration on his part to pull out isn’t so much as a dream for Corteo as he feels the warm and wet substance in his insides intermingle with the remaining cold water from before. His cock hasn’t even been touched during the last act, and yet he came, splattering all over Fango’s bedsheets. The stains could be mistaken for floral decoration seen from afar.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A link to the song that comes up: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4P0hG3sD0-E  
> By the way, I cheated. This song was published in 1931.

Corteo doesn’t know how many hours have passed. His only few certainties are the fact that he’s been locked inside this side of the manor while he was passed out, and that he’s been able to clean himself. There was a towel and various soaps with his clothes folded neatly next to them, which made him assume the entire package was intended for him. He could barely stand up; his entire body hurt so much in that moment of awakening that he couldn’t even tell what had been done to him. His hips hurt and his ass was sore, yes, but every single muscle in his body along with those was paralyzed by lactic acid, so the two earlier sources of discomfort didn’t stand out that much.  _ His ass filled with cum _ , on the other hand… He almost threw up in the shower.

 

He’s staring at the ceiling, sprawled on the bed. There are many things he could do; try to run away, jump out the window (and probably break some bones), rummage Fango’s possessions in the set of interconnected rooms behind the locked office door. Look for something to help himself with. And yet he’s on the bed, in apathy, but at the very least clean. Something has nestled into his mind subtly, a leash that keeps his body tied to this place, to Fango,  _ to Fango’s cock _ … His own thoughts are beyond control.

 

Fango… Speaking of Fango, he’ll be back soon, Corteo is sure, maybe he’ll be generous and let him go. It’s probably delusional to expect so much kindness from him, but who knows… He has a sinister feeling about being allowed to take a shower, not to mention the fact that he’s being mysteriously held captive. Why is there a need for such a thing? His standing in the mafia is good enough for his new boss to keep him in check, he could just tell on him at the Vanettis anytime. 

 

Corteo is a smart young man. He can admit to himself that Fango is going to ask more ‘favours’ of him, there’s no use in pretending that isn’t what’s going to happen. He should’ve known he’d end up like this the moment he entered the mafia with Angelo, but his overattachment prevented him from seeing things realistically back then. He has ruined his own life and all he can do now is try to get something out of this state. 

 

And Fango does show up in a few hours. It’s a slight click of a key and the door’s creaking, but Corteo is suddenly alert, practically jumping up from his position. He hasn’t dressed completely, he only got as far as putting on his pants and the shirt, not buttoning up the latter. There’s a voice in the back of his mind:  _ You don’t need clothes anyway, you’ll be harassed and fucked just like the other night _ .

 

“Good mooooorning, Corteo-boy! Slept well, haven’t you? You looked almost  _ dead _ , lying there.”

 

Fango waltzes in, voice obnoxiously loud in interrupting the other’s thoughts. He looks fresh and energetic, suit pants and a bordeaux shirt, the exact opposite of the wreck Corteo currently is. The last phrase’s crudeness almost makes the younger man laugh.  _ Dead. I wish I was _ . 

 

“Time for breakfast, I suppose?” Fango continues at the lack of reply. 

 

Corteo’s eyes glimmer with hope. Yes, he’s hungry, awfully, unbearably so. The pain was distracting him from his empty stomach, but just the mention of a meal has brought his attention back to it. His hands reach to his shirt to close the remaining buttons (at least the ones that hadn’t been  _ torn off _ yesterday), when all of the sudden, he’s forcefully pushed back onto the bed.

 

“Don’t worry, I’m sure Lacrima won’t be bothered by seeing you like this when she brings on the food” Fango says, holding the struggling Corteo’s arms and legs down, “You won’t leave anyway.”

 

“What do you mean I won’t leave?!” Corteo retorts with fury among futile attempts at freeing himself.

 

“I mean what I say, boy. You did so well yesterday that I made a change in your  _ plan of employment _ .”

 

“Do I look like a whore to you?!!” The bootlegger yells.

 

“Well,” comes the chuckle from Fango, “Not yet.”

 

The little dramatic scene is interrupted by a voluptuous lady entering the room. Corteo remembers her, she probably coincides with the ‘Lacrima’ Fango has mentioned. She’s dressed much more luxuriously than the last time he had seen her, similarly to her partner. Her manicured and jewel-covered hands hold a tray with a plate and a glass of Lawless Heaven. Fango’s voice is almost childishly enthusiastic when he turns towards the bedroom door.

 

“Oooh! Scrambled eggs!”

 

Corteo feels drool accumulating in his mouth at the sight of fuming yellow with small pieces of bacon and onion. There’s a short exchange about something among the other two, but Corteo’s mind is one hundred percent concentrated on the food. Then Lacrima leaves, even shooting something resembling a wink towards the younger man, then disappearing behind the door.

 

He doesn’t dare to ask. All he can do is put on a pitiful face and stare in Fango’s general direction as he sits on the bed, tray on his thighs, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. He notices Corteo eventually and sets the food aside.

 

“Mhhh, I like eggs, one of my favourite foods” Fango says dreamily. The younger man is slightly confused and still hungry.

 

“But Lacrima has cooked such a small portion,” he continues, “I’m not sure it’s enough for the two of us, Corty-baby.”

 

“N-no…” slips out of Corteo’s mouth as his hopes are crushed.

 

“You see,” Fango sighs, “I’m willing to share my delicious scrambled eggs with you if you behave, but I can see you’re  _ very  _ hungry.”

 

Corteo’s stomach growls with a perfect timing. His face goes red from shame.

 

“Half of this wouldn’t provide you with nearly enough nutrition, would it?” Fango points at the plate. “I’m sure you know that, you like chemistry, don’t you?”

 

The younger man would make a comment on how that’s technically studied in the field of biology, but the memories of better times in his life make his head ache, preventing him from saying anything. Memories of when his joys were learning new things, reading books or talking about science. His inner nostalgic trip is interrupted by the all too familiar sound of Fango undoing his belt and pulling out his cock. No.  _ No _ .

 

“Be a good boy and swallow this time. You’ll get your fair share of protein, hahahhahahahhaha!” He erupts in an insane laughter, the addressed unable to react.

 

Corteo is consumed by his need for food, acid tearing at his stomach. His energy levels are critically low and his brain doesn’t seem to function despite his endless efforts to judge this situation smartly. Fango’s face starts to reveal impatience already, his erection flushed and throbbing. So Corteo does the first thing that comes to mind; compliance. 

 

He climbs down, kneeling before Fango and takes the entire organ in his mouth in one go, fighting back against the urge to cough. The Don moans loudly, but he doesn’t resort to his usual antics of making cruel remarks or physically hurting Corteo. Instead, he picks up the plate. The other can only guess what’s happening by the sounds while he bobs his head, the movement frighteningly automated. He can hear the clinks of the fork against porcelain and the small slurps, as well as Fango’s adam’s apple swallowing. 

 

Corteo becomes aware that his mind is being consumed by something new. He suddenly feels an endless amount of rage he can’t put into words, a new concern besides generally having to do what he does. It irritates him how nonchalantly Fango is eating his breakfast, how he groans once or twice, followed by ‘ _ So good... _ ’ but then ‘ _ This food is amazing _ ’. He’s not paying attention. He won’t even look down. His eyes are fixed on the plate he holds in front of himself and the remaining less-than-half of its contents. The more Corteo muses on it, the more it makes him mad. 

 

He grips Fango’s thighs (making him jump a little with surprise) and tightens his mouth around the cock, his head going up and down at a faster pace. He lacks technique, but he tries to do something with his tongue too, and he can feel the reaction in Fango’s breaths and pulse. It feels good to finally have some control. Corteo has even forgotten about the depravity of the whole thing, he just wants food.  _ And attention _ ?

 

“Wow, boy!” The older man’s voice is rendered rough by lust. “You must want to eat very badly…”

 

He finally  _ does something _ , namely gripping Corteo’s scalp, ruining the labour he put into slicking back his hair. Fango forces the other’s mouth down on his erection, making him take it all in, and Corteo isn’t willing to back out from the game of competition as he bobs his head rapidly. He overestimates his reach, however, and he still keens in surprise when the back of his throat is hit. He doesn’t trust himself with making good decisions anymore. Then Fango spills his seed inside and it tastes  _ horrible _ , but Corteo gulps it down anyway.

 

“How is it?” The Don chuckles while pulling out. “Homemade breakfast in bed~!”

 

Then he tosses the few remaining bites of egg to him, grabbing the glass of alcohol and sending it down quickly. Corteo doesn’t even care about getting up; he devours the food as he is, on his knees, eyes tearing up at how good it is.

 

Fango leaves again and only comes back in a few hours, during which Corteo did nothing but lie on the bed, trying to sleep. It’s his only solace, a good nap to forget everything for a little while. His parents would be sad. They would probably disown him. 

 

“Now we can continue with your training!” Fango pats him on the shoulder enthusiastically. Even such an innocuous gesture makes him wince.

 

“Why can’t I go home?” Corteo asks quietly, a bit of an useless question, but it’s not like he expects an answer anyway.

 

“Home?” Fango picks him up by the seam of his shirt, his voice loud and annoying as always. “Where do you want to go? Back to the Vanettis to get killed? To your parents? You don’t even have money on you!” He ends with a malicious half-snicker.

 

“Anywhere but here, you refuse to even feed me properly!” Once again a phrase that comes out impulsively. Fango rolls his eyes, sighing and seemingly having one of his softer moments, as if dealing with a child’s tantrums.

 

“Fine, if you do as I say, I’ll give you a snack later on.”

 

And it’s enough motivation for Corteo to obediently endure the next few minutes. Fango leads him to a different room, on the opposite side of the office comparing to the bedroom. It legitimately looks like a torture chamber at first glance, but the younger man knows enough about its owner to figure it’s not for interrogations. There’s something resembling a headboard and it doesn’t take long until Corteo is as naked as the day he was born and tied to it. 

 

“I’ll be clear on this,” Fango declares, pacing around slowly, “I’m going to train you into submission.” He steps closer to Corteo, whose hands are firmly fixed above his head with long chains, back exposed. “I’ll get you addicted to my cock. I’ll make you beg for it.”

 

Corteo blushes, both from anger and embarrassment. 

 

“Why are you doing this?” 

 

Fango shrugs.

 

“I feel like it.”

 

And with that, he starts stroking the other’s penis painstakingly slowly. Corteo realizes only now that his resistance to the urge of emitting involuntary moans has been lowering. His vocal chords betray him in this struggle against Fango, but to be fair, he’s failed many times already. He’s been failing since the first moment he missed his chance to escape. 

 

“You like that?” Fango murmurs against his neck. Corteo is already hard.

 

With that, he suddenly lets go and leaves, disappearing behind the door. The other man stays there, motionless and aroused, beyond exasperation. For several minutes - around twenty, actually - he suddenly hears a slight screeching sound from the other room, then the typical fuzzy sound of a run-down record starting. There’s some introductory music without vocals; Fango’s stepts are accompanied by the high-pitched sprinkles of piano. He has a whip in his hand, like the ones one would use for horses.

 

_ All of me _

_ Why not take all of me _

 

He seems to be pleased about the singer’s voice; it occurs to Corteo that he might like this particular song. It’s crudely funny to him how such a horrible person could have an appreciation for music. The next few lines of the lyrics are muffled by Fango speaking.

 

“Here’s the rules, Corty-baby; every ten floggings is ten strokes to your dick, if you keep still, that is!

 

Corteo pulls at the chains in panic. Breaking them was unrealistic from the start but there’s still enough dignity in him to at least put up a fight. It dawns on him that Fango wasn’t really asking his consent to the ‘rules’ when the first lash comes down, right in the middle of his back. He whines in agony.

 

_ Your goodbye left me with eyes that cry _

_ How can I go on, dear, without you _

 

The vinyl stutters a little before ‘dear’, exactly in the moment the older man whips Corteo a second time. The latter’s senses aren’t fast enough to take in so much information. In this whirlpool of pain, disgust, Fango, jazz music, the whip and everything else, all he can think of is how his hard-on is pressing against the headboard insistently, despite the circumstances. 

 

_ You took the part that was once my heart _

 

The third hit is a bit late. Corteo readies himself for it, goosebumps running down his back. At least he know how it feels now; he can just endure until it’s over.

 

_ So why not take all of me _

 

It finally arrives with a smack. He’s clinging too tightly to the surface in front of him, his aching cock longing for friction. 

 

“This is a good technique,” Fango comments, chortling, “It connects pain to pleasure in your brain. Just see for yourself, you’ll be getting off on papercuts after a few more sessions!”

 

_ All of me _

 

The record is apparently on loop. 

 

_ Why not take all of me _

 

Corteo tries to distract himself from the fourth blow by thinking through the explanation. Is it actually true? Should he be feeling good right now? He tries to concentrate on his body, mentally running through his the various parts to detect good sensations.Then there’s the sound of Fango’s torture utensil swinging upwards and the anticipation from before grows a little in Corteo. He tries to pay attention to the good components of the next whiplash, and when it happens, he notices a tingling on his skin that wasn’t there before. It’s like cold air, except the feeling is embedded deeper in his guts. A groan escapes his control. So this is it? Sexual desire? He’s disappointed in his own self. 

 

_ Can’t you see _

_ I’m no good without you _

 

He looks down in shame at the precum dripping from his cock - a bad move, because it ensures Fango notices too, making him burst out in laughter. Corteo didn’t think his sense of regret could’ve gotten any stronger, but now it does. 

 

_ Take my lips _

_ I want to lose them _

 

Six. Corteo’s moan unexpectedly turns into a pained cry. Or a mix of the two. 

 

_ Take my arms _

 

Seven. He’s surprisingly close to coming. His legs wobble beneath him.

 

_ I’ll never use them _

 

Semen spurts all over the headboard. Fango looks even more shocked than Corteo who takes advantage of the fact that the whipping has stopped for a second, supporting himself against the wooden plane. He’s panting hard, strands of his disheveled, curly locks sticking to his face due to sweat. There’s a line of spit dribbling down his chin and he looks at the older man with the eyes of a hurt puppy. The female singer from the record persists, her rich voice being the only sound that fills the room besides Corteo’s breathing.

 

_ Your goodbye left me with eyes that cry _

_ How can I go on, dear, without you _

 

“I tell you to keep still and what do you do? You cum.” Fango shakes his head disapprovingly. It’s still playful, still a joke. It’s still a goddamn joke to him. “All over my furniture, to boot.”

 

“But it’s a success, in a way” he continues, scratching his chin, after seeing that Corteo has no intention to reply. “It means I’ve managed to train you much faster. Now we only have to test it out.” He disappears for a few seconds and stops the record.

 

“Oh god…” the other exclaims.

 

However, his eyes widen when Fango reaches inside his vest pocket to pull out the handcuffs’ keys, only to unlock them a moment later. Corteo falls onto his knees, unable to speak as the pain in his back strikes him. It stings so bad he suspects there might be open wounds. And this is what he got off on, being  _ physically injured _ and treated like a dog.

 

“Come on~” Fango teases him, “Why be so ashamed? At least you’ll get something out of injuries from now on.”

 

He steps closer, and then his expensive, snake leather shoe’s heel is smashed against Corteo’s neck, slamming him into the floor. The younger man can barely bring himself to look up at Fango who’s still holding the whip. Then it all happens in a moment, and the lashes come down one after the other with loud smacks, Corteo bawling and creating a pathetic pool of tears and saliva in front of him. He feels something awaken in him as the hits keep coming, and no, no,  _ no _ , this can’t be happening,  _ he can’t be hard again, for fuck’s sake _ . And he knows Fango’s seeing his blushes and uncomfortable shifts amidst the torturing, which brings in yet another thrill somehow.

 

“Oh, you need something?” He stops whipping for a while. “Then why not  _ ask for it _ ?”

 

“I… I need to…” Corteo hates how thin and quiet his voice comes out.

 

“I think I told you how to call me” Fango interrupts him, putting more pressure onto his boot and jamming the other’s face against cold marble.

 

“Don… Please stop… Please…  _ Please _ …” Right when he’s about to be cut short again, a stream of consciousness erupts from Corteo. “Please, I don’t want to be hurt anymore… I hate this, I hate that I react to this… I just wanted to help… I just wanted to live my life… But all of this kept happening- And I  _ had _ to come here, I didn’t want to, I really didn’t... Why won’t you even  _ look at me _ … Angelo…”

 

Fango sighs and throws the whip nearby on the floor. He kneels down besides the younger man and cups his cheeks, slick from tears. Corteo is too much of a wreck to push him away or even move, sobs shaking up his body.

 

“Look at you, boy.” It’s not a tone Fango would usually speak in. It’s calm and deep and even somewhat soothing. “What a mess you’ve made of yourself. I suppose it’s tough, huh?”

 

The other doesn’t know what the sudden bout of sympathy is due to, but his mind and body are both exhausted. He’s grabbed by a forearm and brought up to a sitting position. His erection is still there, relentless. Fango leans close.

 

“But I guess we can’t help it if your friend prefers the Vanetti kid. This is what we have to work with.”

 

“This is bullshit…!” Corteo’s tears start streaming again. “Why can’t you just kill Nero?”

 

“Bwahahahhahahaha, and you think that will make him like you? He’ll just mourn his precious Don,”  _ It’s true. He knows it’s true. _ “And his cock.”

 

The bootlegger’s eyes stop watering as the last pieces of hope in him are cruelly smashed under leather shoes. 

 

“Let it go, you’re not cut out for  _ that kind of thing _ anyway, boy.”

 

Fango’s fingers wrap around Corteo’s cock, eliciting a sharp breath, almost a hiss. After he lets go, it’s hard to tell the force with which he pushes the younger man down; there’s no resistance either way. Corteo’s familiar with the position, it’s the same as yesterday. Except he doesn’t fight now, limiting himself to having his head turned behind to stare at the Don blankly. 

 

Fango shoves three fingers into his mouth to slick up Corteo’s entrance as a half-hearted attempt at lubrification. Then he fucks him hard. The marble floor almost feels like ice, tingling against Corteo’s skin. Those big hands, holding his lips in one place, are digging into the wounds on his back, and it  _ hurts _ , but what’s there to care anymore. 

 

“Ahhhh ahhhh AHHH!” 

 

The moans increase in volume and frequency with every thrust, and for a while Corteo refuses to even speak words, but then Fango’s cock hits his prostate.

 

“Please…”

 

It’s quiet and feeble. And now he older man is  _ deliberately _ avoiding that spot, and it’s  _ maddening _ … But somehow, Fango seems to know why he’s frustrated, it just shows on him, his touch and his movements. It’s a sick mutual understanding they have. Then Corteo can finally revel in the feeling again - because the other was generous, maybe - of being pounded from the exact angle his body desires, and he lets his voice out with no restraints.

 

“Oh god, please, PLEASE…! YES…! Oh fuck, Don, yes! Don’t stop, please!” 

 

“I’ve trained you well, Corty-baby” Fango laughs excitedly.

 

Corteo is brought to the edge by that, and he orgasms the moment the other man strokes him, presumably as a sort of reward. It’s much stronger than his earlier climax, he sees stars after so much tension being released. His body goes limp on the floor, panting hard. Fango stands up with more nonchalance than the situation would allow and starts walking away.

 

“Get up, boy, we have things to do. The disciplining is over for today.”

 

“What else are you going to make me do?” Corteo says weakly, voice dull and numb.

 

“Told you you could have a snack, didn’t I?” Fango looks back over his shoulder with a smirk. “We’re heading out to Ottimo Fango’s!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I once again apologize to Corteo.

**Author's Note:**

> My formal apologies go to Corteo, who in no way deserves this treatment. I am very sorry and I admit to falling into the sin irredeemably.


End file.
